


unsubtle indeed

by beili



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Injury, Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Marriage, Romance, Snippets, Stealth Crossover, curtainfic, headcanons, hurt-comfort, spies in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28197357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beili/pseuds/beili
Summary: A happy ending, and everything that came after.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 19
Kudos: 80





	1. Equipment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [valmora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/gifts).



> This collection of snippets dates back to 2015-16 and had been once posted on tumblr, where pretty much no one had seen or read it. I figured I'd finally bring them over here as well (haven't given up on editing the second part of event horizon, I promise).  
> Some of these are related to the [event horizon](https://archiveofourown.org/series/415819) series. Individual summaries and warnings, if applicable, are given before each chapter.
> 
> With all my love, to the best co-author and partner in crime (against incongruity in canon), [Val Mora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora) ♥.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a matter of priority.

“Excuse me,” Ilya said, voice incredulous and somewhat tinny over the phone, “You wanted me to what?”

“Director Waverly has informed me that you discarded the radio, agent Kuryakin,” McGinnis said. “Do I need to remind you how valuable that equipment is?”

“Did you want me to leave my partner to die so you could have your precious radio back?” Ilya said, with palpable sarcasm. “‘Sorry, Napoleon, director McGinnis doesn’t care about your wounds, he only cares about the tin can that weighs about ten kilos and is apparently more valuable than an agent’s life. You can find your own way back to HQ, I have to carry that piece of metal to safety instead’. Was that how you wanted me to put it?”

“You shouldn’t have just left it!” McGinnis said, going red in the face, and next to Waverly, April stiffled a groan.

“It’s a problem of an agent’s life versus technology, director McGinnis,” Ilya said, voice suspiciously mild. “And it has a very simple solution.”

“Enlighten us, agent Kuryakin,” McGinnis snapped. Waverly took a forcifying sip of his tea.

“Make better technology,” Ilya said, in a tone more suited to dealing with an impatient toddler.

McGinnis’ face was getting redder by the second.

“Is this your solution, agent Kuryakin?” he growled.

“I have reported several times on the quality of this equipment,” Ilya said, “That radio is a piece of junk. There is much more advanced technology currently available…”

“That would require us to collaborate with fucking Commies!”

April covered her eyes with a hand. Waverly didn’t, but it was a near thing.

“You are presently collaborating with a fucking Commie, director McGinnis,” Ilya said, his tone icy. “The fucking Commie that is going to make sure the agent you wanted to be left for dead isn’t going to bleed out in the next few hours. Maybe a shift of priorities is in order. Kuryakin out.”

There was a loud crack and the dial tone. McGinnis was glaring impotently at the intercom.

Waverly and April stared at each other. “Do you think he broke it?” April said in a stage whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/138435963551/equipment)


	2. Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to the root of the problem (Ilya-style).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fiction. Best taken with a grain of salt.

“And that is how it’s always been done!” said Minion #17, triumphantly.

“Yes,” Ilya said, “I got that. I got that the first sixteen times. But _why_?”

Minion #17 was starting to look flustered.

“It’s been written that way in the instructions,” she said, in a tone of great superiority, “and that is how we’ve been doing it since day one.”

“But it makes no sense,” Ilya said.

“Just tell him why, darling,” Napoleon said. He wasn’t quite about to start losing bloodflow in his fingers, but they had promised Gaby they’d be done with this by dinnertime, and he really didn’t like being restrained. “Some of us have places to be, and _he_ can keep this up all day.”

“Please explain it to me,” Ilya said, patiently. Napoleon leaned back as well as he could in a chair he was tied up to. Maybe Gaby would get angry at them and storm this base, and save him before he died here of old age.

Minion #17 took a deep breath.

“I don’t understand why you’re hung up on it so much,” she said. “It’s been done that way as long as I can remember. There is no other way of doing it. The leader said so.”

It was clearly taking Ilya a lot of effort not to roll his eyes heavenwards.

“Take me to your leader, then,” he said.

Napoleon closed his eyes.

“ _What_?” Gaby said over the phone. “Are you kidding me? _Again_?”

“You know what it’s like,” Napoleon said. He got bored about twenty minutes into Ilya’s discussion with the cult leader, slipped his restraints and went to find the nearest communication device. “They get really defensive. He gets really angry, which, these days, means that he gets incredibly sarcastic, and they mistake it for being polite.”

“How long do you think they are going to take this time?” 

Napoleon looked down to where Ilya was hovering over the cult leader like an irate stormcloud. The cult leader was starting to look quite flustered, too.

“I’m giving it ten more minutes, tops,” he said.

“Ilya,” Gaby said, later, “why the hell do you do this? You could have just seized control of the base and had it done in under half an hour.”

“Gaby,” Ilya said, “I really don’t give a damn about how they spell it. But I’d like anyone, for once, to give me a proper explanation. ‘Cult leader said so’ is not it.“

"You might want to give up,” Gaby said. “All they do is become agitated. It has never led to anything good.”

“No one can stand an angry Russian asking them why,” Napoleon agreed, discreetly balling up a flyer from the cult base and binning it.

 _'NAPOLEON SOLO AND ILLYA KURYAKIN,’_ the flyer proclaimed in bold capital letters. _'WANTED: ALIVE.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I’d post one chapter a day, but since I’m going into surgery tomorrow, a couple of extras wouldn’t go amiss. Please enjoy the shenanigans and wish me luck! 
> 
> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/139067561061/reason)


	3. 23rd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another anniversary.

Napoleon prided himself on not being surprised often, but he was definitely surprised when Ilya showed up at his door one February evening with a bottle of vodka.

“Peril,” he said carefully, as Ilya took off his shoes and coat, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s the 23rd,” Ilya said, like that should have explained everything. When Napoleon raised his eyebrows, uncomprehending, he huffed and added, “Soviet Army day”.

“And you’re a Soviet Army officer,” Napoleon said. “Right”.

He was beginning to understand Ilya a little better, he thought, and this - this was definitely about being homesick and wanting company. Vodka was really just an excuse.

*

“And then we go to maneuvres,” Ilya said, taking a sip from his glass, “with these tanks that aren’t usually my responsibility. And it turns out there isn’t a single light or fuse left in their radios. You can’t steal the whole radiostation, you understand, they are bolted down, but the small parts are all game. So I have several tanks and I have to make sure they communicate, but the stations are as good as dead”.

They were still sitting at the kitchen table, a perfectly fine meal demolished between them, two thirds into the bottle of vodka. Napoleon didn’t feel drunk - maybe a little tipsy, at most - and Ilya’s cheeks got some colour in them. He looked damn good like that, flushed with warmth and good food and smiling a little at their army shenanigans. The times had been simpler - maybe not really, not for either of them, but it was easier to forget the difficulties, back then. Napoleon could certainly relate.

“I had a spare light on me,” Ilya was saying, “so we could see the display on one of them and tune in the others by the count, but how do you improvise those fuses? And it’s nothing but a field full of dirt, and the shooting is that night.”

He finished off his glass; Napoleon did, too, and poured for both of them. He still didn’t care much for the taste - whiskey was better all around - but no one ever drank vodka for the taste, anyway.

“So how did you do it?” he said. “Improvised the fuses?”

Ilya smiled at him, a small, real smile that would’ve looked alien on his face not half a year ago.

“Wooden pegs,” he said, with meaning.

It took a moment to sink in. “ _No_ ,” Napoleon said, grinning.

“Believe it,” Ilya said, and drank. “There was a small clump of trees at the edge of the field, so all one needed was a few short pegs and a bit of copper wire. It wouldn’t melt, you know,” he said, “not like lead. Anyway, the whole thing took an hour at the most. We got them running, and we got the frequency by the count, but in the end it didn’t matter one bit, because they didn’t hit a single bloody target that night.”

Napoleon was laughing at the sheer absurdity of it - no wonder Ilya was always growling about UNCLE radios; the things were endlessly fiddly and too unwieldy to carry around, although after his last report the tech department had really hunkered down to make something more lightweight and durable in extreme conditions. It didn’t really matter at the moment, though, because Ilya was right there, warm by his side, eyes alight and shoulders loose, trading him harmless army stories.

“Happy Soviet Army day,” Napoleon said, and clinked their glasses together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soviet Army stories courtesy of my father. Dad, you scoundrel. Love you.  
> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/139811879831/23rd)


	4. Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three times people came on to Napoleon Solo, and one time Napoleon did it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the event horizon 'verse. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it stealth crossover.

1.

The one thing Napoleon would never have thought of UNCLE work was how often it landed them in venues of dubious reputation. Sure, he’d done enough of the same for the CIA, but back then it was usually his idea: get the mark to loosen up, ply them with drink and promises, ensure cooperation or compromise them, and be gone. These days, at least, he was almost never asked to get up close and personal with someone, and he had very competent backup.

It wasn’t always about tailing a mark, either: meeting with informants at some club or other was fast becoming a routine. Istanbul, Lima, now Zurich: he was getting closely acquainted with the nightlife in all of them, more than he could ever want to.

“Oh,” the girl said. “You have a very pretty smile. Are you sure you weren’t in any movies?”

Napoleon couldn’t see Ilya from where he was leaning at the bar next to her, but he was sure that, just behind him, the man was rolling his eyes. This was absolutely not the first time, either.

“Sorry,” he told the girl, “Not cut out for that. Anything to add on the bird-related base?”

“Pity,” she said. “And no. You’d have to come see it for yourselves.”

“Charming,” Napoleon said, finishing the rest of his drink. “Thank you.”

She adjusted the strap of her bag, drawing his eye to her impressive décolletage. “Are you sure you don’t want to have some fun, tonight?”

That was, Napoleon thought, a spectacularly bad idea, and not even the kind he’d usually be thrilled to indulge in; and his partner was right there, to boot.

“Sorry, darling,” he said, airily, “lots of mountain-climbing tomorrow.”

2.

Then there was a man who eyed him across the room for a good ten minutes. Napoleon wasn’t working – they were back in New York, and they decided to go out, all three of them. Ilya was arguing the finer construction points of a Makarov pistol vs. a Walther PP with Gaby; Napoleon was sprawled out in a booth between them, drink in one hand, idly watching the crowd. Ilya’s arm occasionally brushed his as Ilya gestured to make a point. It was all very comfortable – at least until they gained an unexpected audience. Just as Napoleon was starting to wonder what the creepy attention was all about, the man sidled up to them and said, to Napoleon, “Oh, you look just like…”

“I thought I’d grown out of it,” Napoleon said, a little sharply, because he had and he _did_. The man was either very determined or an avid admirer of a certain type, and Napoleon had patience for neither. He would have liked to be left alone with his whiskey, his lover and their friend, thanks very much.

“My apologies, then,” said the man, and made himself scarce.

“‘Just like…’?” Gaby said, raising her eyebrows.

“Barnes,” Napoleon answered, resigned. “You know, war hero, sidekick extraordinaire, KIA, and all that.”

Both Gaby and Ilya looked at him very thoughtfully, and he resisted the urge to squirm.

“I don’t see it, myself,” Gaby said after a full minute. “You have better hair, for one.”

“I do,” Ilya said, “kind of. Lookalikes contest?”

“Placed second, when I was nineteen,” Napoleon said. “Luckily enough, I didn’t stay that way.”

He was never fessing up to war effort pictures and newspaper clippings in his childhood bedroom. Gaby wouldn’t let him live it down.

3.

“Is that a friend of yours, back there?” a man said to him. Napoleon looked over: Ilya, at the corner table, was watching them. The man looked, too, clearly admiring, then leaned in a little closer. “Would you boys like a threesome?”

“I know I shouldn’t say it boggles the mind,” Napoleon said as they were walking towards his car, later, “but _it boggles the mind_.”

“Really, Cowboy,” Ilya said. “Don’t tell me _you_ never used that line.”

Napoleon huffed, annoyed, and started the engine. He had no leg to stand on, here, because he did use it - successfully, even.

“Not on two other men, I didn’t,” was what he said.

Ilya patted him on the thigh, briefly, shaking his head and hiding a smile. “Which means that you probably said it to two women at some point.”

“Um,” Napoleon said, because it was more than once, as he was sure Ilya had already guessed, and cast about for something else to say. “Would you like one? A threesome, I mean.”

“Cowboy,” Ilya said.

“Not with that guy, obviously, he looked skeevy,” Napoleon continued, painfully aware his mouth was running away from him. He wanted to know, though. It never really came up between them, before. “But generally speaking.”

“Would you?” Ilya asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Only if it’s something you’d like,” Napoleon said, looking resolutely up ahead. Ilya’s hand had come to rest on his thigh again, a pleasant, comforting weight.

“Then no,” Ilya said, and the corner of his mouth turned up. “You really did use that awful line on women, though.”

“Even better,” Napoleon said, “at least once it was _for work_.”

+1.

“I got the short straw,” Napoleon was saying, “no one else wanted to come to them and say they needed to abandon the mission and leave, as soon as possible. And I had no idea what the hell to say, because the whole bar was watching, and at least half of those people were ready to shoot up the place at the slightest provocation.”

He poured whiskey for both of them, handing one of the glasses to Ilya, who tugged him closer until Napoleon had no choice but to sit in his lap, which was a place he’d have liked to end up in more often. He put one hand on the back of Ilya’s neck, and Ilya’s arm settled around him.

“So,” Napoleon said, “I saunter to their table, which is really more of a barely controlled stumble, and they don’t know me on sight, but they can make an educated guess; I was later told I had “CIA rookie” written all over me. And the first thing that comes out of my mouth is, 'Would you ladies like a threesome?’”

“ _No_ ,” Ilya said, drawing away a bit as if apalled, but his mouth was twitching, and his hand was rubbing tiny circles into the small of Napoleon’s back.

“ _Yes_ ,” Napoleon said, savouring the touch. “In front of God and the whole bar and several gossips from the Secret Service, who were listening to the whole thing because they gave me a wire, I proposition _both_ Mansfield and Winslow in an incredibly undignified manner, and they have no choice but to pretend they want it, and all three of us walk out.”

Ilya’s shoulders were shaking with laughter, and he leaned his forehead against Napoleon’s shoulder.

“I have no idea how Winslow didn’t shoot you,” he said. “You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation.”

“Oh, she very much wanted to,” Napoleon said, “but the CIA dragged me away as soon as we were out. Mansfield was incredibly annoyed, herself, but at least she didn’t take it out on me. I heard that their handler had to resign, after; she repeatedly made the lightbulbs in his bathroom explode.”

“Double-Ohs,” Ilya said, shaking his head.

“Your turn,” Napoleon said, putting his half-empty glass on the table in favour of wrapping himself all around Ilya. “Embarrassing KGB stories now, please.”

He could feel Ilya’s mouth curl into a smile against his neck.

“Well, _I_ didn’t have to fake-proposition fellow operatives,” Ilya said, “but there was an accident with a closet and commander’s boots at the base where my friend served…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record: Val Mora has all the best ideas. 
> 
> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/140099084701/proposition)


	5. Registry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year is 198-something, and there’s paperwork to fill out, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons abound, here. This one contains: non-period-typical attitude to homosexuality; April Dancer becoming the UNCLE director after Waverly; Gaby moving on to work for the tech department of MI6; a bunch of hyperactive interns. And, of course, the matter of making an honest man of your long-time partner.

“You and Kuryakin?” the section chief says with a _you have got to be kidding me_ expression. His name is Samuels, and he’s - relatively new. Someone from Waverly’s generation would not have batted an eye. “Really?”

“Pension benefits,” Napoleon says blithely. The folder on Samuels’ desk isn’t very thick - next of kin, medical emergency contacts, some domestic benefits forms, change of address, that sort. It’s not the same as - well, as the real thing, but it’s close enough. 

“Director Dancer has already approved it, I see,” Samuels says, proffering a ream of paperwork. “Sign these. Your partner as well. And - Agent Solo. Congratulations.”

—

“Well?” Ilya asks when Napoleon makes it back to their office. 

“More paperwork for you, Peril,” Napoleon says with his best mournful expression.

“You,” Ilya says as he takes in the contents of the folder, “are - how do they put it these days? - so full of shit.” But his eyes crinkle at the corners, and the corners of his mouth turn up. Happy, Napoleon realizes. This is Ilya’s happy smile. Ilya is happy. The thought makes something flutter in his chest.

“Congratulations on finally being married to you too, darling,” Napoleon says. He can feel a smile tugging at his own mouth. “As good as, anyway. How long did it take you to make an honest man out of me, again?”

“The better part of twenty years, if I recall correctly,” Ilya says, his tone lofty and his eyes alight with mischief. 

“Please refrain from kissing at the office,” April says from the doorway, equally fond and exasperated.

“Director Dancer,” Napoleon says, turning to give her a hug, and she grins before putting one arm around him and the other around Ilya.

“No need to stand on ceremony, Solo,” she says. “This is a truly glorious day.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon can see the grasshoppers gathering outside - interoffice dividers had been replaced with electrooptically charged glass a few years ago, in accordance with the new regulations; Ilya had been muttering about the advance of grim dystopia, but it made being sneaked up on nearly impossible. Now, he can see Angie whispering to Noel and Miriam, Thomas chatting on the phone, no doubt spreading the word, and Judy scribbling something on a sheet of paper. Ugh-oh.

“Gaby called to say that, and I quote, you two are disgustingly cute and she wishes you the best,” April says, “and also to yell that you absolutely had to pick a time when she can’t get away from Six. Please do call her back, she would love to yell at both of you in person.”

“We will,” Ilya says.

He’s smiling outright now. It’s a good look on him, Napoleon thinks - it always was; and for so many years, it was Napoleon’s privilege to see that smile, to look for glimpses of it, catch it like the sun in winter. Will be his privilege for many years to come, hopefully. He doesn’t need UNCLE’s official stamp of approval on their relationship, but it feels good to be - included. Understood, maybe. It helps that they’d been on desk duty for three years now. No one would be threatening them with reassignment.

He’s very happy with their shared office, even though it does bring uncomfortable allusions to glass houses sometimes.

“So,” April is saying, “Is there going to be a name change? Wait, no, the young ones would have to use your first names, to tell you apart. Judy would have a heart attack.”

Behind her back, Judy is wearing her best shit-eating grin and holding up a handwritten sign that says, “Just married!” with tiny hearts floating around the words. Others see him looking and give him thumbs-up, in between what seems like giggle fits. Napoleon responds, discreetly, with a cheerful little wave.

“No name changes yet,” Ilya confirms.

“Well,” April says, “do tell if they are in the works. Congratulations again, gentlemen,” and leaves.

Grasshoppers hide the sign before she sees it, but don’t quite manage to disperse quickly enough. From the look in April’s eye, she knows exactly what they were doing. She stops to talk to Miriam and Thomas; Napoleon can’t quite see the man’s face, but Miriam’s clearly says there will be archive time. Well, good for them - _he_ certainly spent a lot more of his life with a nose in some paper or other than on active missions.

Judy grins at them again, then busies herself with the files on her desk.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Ilya says, bumping Napoleon’s shoulder with his own, easy and affectionate. He’s still smiling.

“Just thinking how much can change in twenty years,” Napoleon says. “Lunch?”

The sign mysteriously shows up on their whiteboard the next day. Neither of them bothers removing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/141500284341/registry)


	6. The gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The leg is still attached,” Ilya says, as dry as he can manage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small point of divergence in the event horizon ‘verse.  
> This one contains: aftermath of an injury; hurt/comfort; an OC due to show in the second part of EH; a really, really unsubtle nod to L.M. Bujold.

Napoleon is watching him, when Ilya comes to, and he looks so terribly relieved.

“Bring it,” Ilya croaks.

“Why hello to you too, darling,” Napoleon says, “how nice of you to join us again”. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“The leg is still attached,” Ilya says, as dry as he can manage.

“Yes,” Napoleon says, and stops. Ilya raises an eyebrow at him.

“80 percent mobility,” Napoleon says. “If you’re as good at physio as you were lucky, and let me tell you, you were _very_ lucky.”

“But,” Ilya says, because of course that can’t be the end.

“But,” Napoleon says, “no more fieldwork, period.”

He looks like he agonized over this for days. Had, probably; they both had calculated a good five years in themselves yet, unless something like this were to happen. Ilya has never been fond of optimistic predictions.

Napoleon’s hand is shaking, almost imperceptibly, when Ilya catches it and tugs him closer, out of the visitor’s chair and onto the edge of the bed. It takes some careful rearranging, but then they are tucked against each other, Napoleon’s nose in his neck and Ilya’s non-bandaged arm around him.

“Cramping your career, aren’t I?” Ilya says, only mostly joking.

“Please,” Napoleon says. “April was born to do this job. She’s great at it. Better than Waverly was, even. And any office needs a good ten years of experience in the region. So no.”

Ilya runs careful fingers through his hair and makes a thoughtful noise.

“It’s just,” Napoleon says, “I don’t think I’d be able to take it.”

“What, the ten years in a specific region?” Ilya asks, though he can hazard a guess what this is about.

“Seeing my partner get blown up right in front of me,” Napoleon says. “Again. Let’s not have a repeat of that, shall we?”

Ilya tucks him in a little tighter.

*

And then, of course, comes the best part.

“You can’t go back to your flat,” Napoleon says. “Please don’t look at me like that. Fifth floor, no lift; you’re barely off the crutches.”

“So, of course, it’s logical for me to stay at yours,” Ilya says, trying for sarcasm and mostly coming out bewildered. Napoleon, with grace of many years spent in countless uncomfortable situations, pretends not to notice.

“Obviously.” He’s opening the car door before Ilya can reach for it, and Ilya only glares at him a little: he still tires very easily.

“What is April going to say?”

“Her order,” Napoleon says, starting the car.

*

The call comes on his second night out of the hospital. It’s not even late yet, but the physio, for all its familiarity, is not getting any easier with years, and Ilya nearly falls off Napoleon’s obscenely comfortable couch.

“Yes,” he says, into the receiver.

“How dare you,” Gaby says, on the other end of the line.

“Nice to hear you too, Gaby,” Ilya says, because he knows when to take a page out of Napoleon’s book. As if on cue, Napoleon appears out of the kitchen, where he had been fussing over something.

“I leave the country for three years, and you get blown up,” Gaby says, sternly. “Again. Is Solo there? Is he alright? After how he took it last time, I half expected him to give himself an aneurysm.”

“Hi, Gaby,” Napoleon says from where he has slid down onto the carpet, shamelessly listening in.

“Hi, Solo,” Gaby says. “You two better be taking good care of each other. Himself says he might let me get a vacation for this. I’m coming over in a month or so.”

“We will,” Ilya says, and closes his eyes when Napoleon’s hand settles in his hair.

*

There’s a long thin box on his desk when he’s finally allowed to come back to work.

“If this is what I think it is,” Napoleon says, speculatively.

Ilya looks at the “all clear” stamp from security, and opens the box.

Complete, the cane is innocuous; Ilya runs careful fingers over the polished wood, lifts it out. It’s light and well-balanced; the handle fits perfectly into his hand.

“You, my friend, have become a walking cliche,” Napoleon says. Ilya runs his other hand over the length of the cane, feeling for that barely noticeable bump.

“I don’t care,” he says as the cane obligingly breakes in two in his hands. The blades spring out, soundless and quick.

“How did he get it through security?” Napoleon wonders, prying the shorter dagger out of Ilya’s grip and looking it over with barely concealed admiration.

“Ceramic blades,” Ilya says, “and inside help.”

Napoleon whistles.

“I’m thinking Stepanov,” Ilya says.

“Should we report it?”

“There’s no proof,” Ilya says. “And besides, Stepanov is now scheduled to go on that mission in Cuba, since I’m not going to be there.”

Napoleon looks dubious; the cane slots back together as easily and soundlessly as it opened.

“How many native Russian speakers do we have in the New York office now?” Ilya asks.

“Stepanov and Shevtsova,” Napoleon says, “and you.”

“I don’t count anymore,” Ilya says. It hurts less every time he repeats it, aloud or to himself. “And Shevtsova doesn’t have the necessary experience yet. Stepanov will have to be the one going, which means no reporting.”

“Your sword cane, your rules,” Napoleon says, still looking somewhat dubious.

*

The nighttime phone calls are becoming routine by this point.

“Yes,” Ilya says. Napoleon is tucked warm and drowsy against his side, and his hip was keeping him awake, anyway.

“You are a lucky bastard, Kuryakin,” Yashin says.

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “And for the gift.”

“Protect yourself, sunshine,” Yashin says, the faintest hint of irony in his voice. “I almost lost a bet to the missus; we can’t have that.”

Whatever it was Valentina had in mind in case she were to win, Ilya doesn’t want to know.

“I’ll rest easier knowing my continued existence saved you from indentured servitude,” Ilya says.

Yashin snorts.

“I’m already in indentured servitude,” he says. “Now, duty calls. Be well. My regards to Solo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on tumblr](http://beili.tumblr.com/post/146761600441/the-gift)

**Author's Note:**

> Ilya's name in the stories is transliterated in accordance with the Russian spelling.


End file.
